A Funny Guy's Biker Fantasy
As I walked by a biker hangout, I thought of a scene from "Peewee's Big Adventure." Three rows of motorcycles arced like theater seats from the sign of a biker bar called Restricted. After I recovered from the giggles, I wondered why anyone would name a bar with a word that means prohibited. Wasn't the goal to get people in the bar? Hearing some of the stories associated with the bar, Restricted seemed an appropriate name, considering if you stood under the wrong flag or sewed on the wrong patch, you may get your ass handed to you by loyalists.
"Can I help you?" was said so close to my ear that I thought someone had spoken with a megaphone. On jerking away, I was surprised by a rather tall man with a wedge head, scruffy face, and large gold earring dangling from the right side of his head. His smile spread from one side of the wedge to the other. He doubled over in laughter, as did the small crowd behind him, because they thought it pretty damn funny that I arced like a diver to keep from crashing into the bikes. But I over corrected and ended up falling to my side like a chalk outline. "Here, let me help you up," Wedge said, still laughing.
"That shit was hilarious, man, but just between you and me, you saved yourself from certain death," he advised while nodding to the theater of bikes. "You wrecked any of those suckers, you'll have some big fuckers in there who'd rape you like an alter boy, then kill like a sacrifice."
I was shocked: Rape me like an altar boy? Kill me like a sacrifice? I stared at this tall stranger whose dark-blue eyes and horse grin hypnotized me despite the fear. I was stunned by how big God made some men. This one was about six-six, and had to weigh at least two-fifty. Yeah, that was how I like my men, but I didn't know if this big fella played on my team.
Ask any gay man about gay recognition, when indicators are vague, and he would probably say, "That depends." Well, in this situation, it DID depend, and the indicators were definitely vague; but being the cock whore that I am, I went for it.
"What's your name, tall drink of water?" I asked, pushing out my best butch stance and squinting with Eastwood swagger. Again, the tall stranger and crowd doubled over in laughter.
"I can't take it, I'm hurtin'. You really are a funny guy," the stranger said and extended a hand. "Let me buy you a beer," he said, as he pulled me toward the entrance. "By the way, my name's Pete, Pete Jenkins; and that's the gang. The small crowd waved, smiled, and went into Restricted.
"Jimmy Haze," I said and followed Pete into the bar.
I sat at the bar looking around like a boob, but no one took notice; in fact, the bar looked like any neighborhood bar. It even had a pinball machine with Wonder Woman throwing her golden lasso at any one who dared play. The bar, made of scorched wood and shellacked to a high gloss, ran along the width of the room, where silver barstools with ripped upholstery sat equally spaced. Sawdust and peanut shells littered the floor and giant utility spools doubled as tables. An overworked and faded pool table sat next to an inoperable jukebox, but a DJ booth had been installed. Banners and flags of rendezvous past, present, and future, along with playmate-of-the-year pictures, hung on paneling.
"Yep, I bought the bar back in '93 when I retired and told the army to kiss my short hairs," Pete said before taking a swig. "I don't worry about profit, I worry about having a good time!" he said and rang a bell, whose proximity was close enough to make me hop from my stool and spill my beer all over.
"Damn funny guy," Pete said while shaking his head at my antics. "Damn funny," he said laughing and wiping up my mess. But his expression turned stern before leaning toward me. "You're buying the next round, by God," he said and flashed that horse grin.
After the crowd got their drinks, I relaxed a little, heard music from the DJ booth and chatter from the pool table. I had survived Restricted and I had made some friends. Feeling less jumpy, I felt free to look around some more: I hadn't noticed at my first pass of the bar that there were numerous water stains on the ceiling or the warping paneling, nor had I noticed the leather silhouette at the end of the bar.
He finished his beer and counted the barstools as he neared. Chewing on a toothpick, he asked, "Do you come in a bigger size?" causing the bar to explode in laughter.
He wore mirrored glasses that recalled the gay leather god, Ledermeister, in that picture where he's reclining on Kawasaki. Six-eight, about 280 pounds of solid muscle, this stranger—this hairy, leather Sequoia—leaned into me and examined me like a concept car.
"You wanna look under the hood?" I asked, hoping that my trembling wasn't noticeable. Laughter exploded again.
"Good one," he said but he didn't explode.
My trembling doubled.
"Frank Nesbit," he said and extended a gloved hand.
"Jimmy," I said, as electricity passed through me.
"Mind if I sit?" he asked with a drawl unfamiliar to me. It wasn't a welcoming Dixie drawl or a lilt-y mid-Atlantic drawl. His smacked of southwestern swagger: phrasings to set him apart, diction to keep things brief.
He continued to study me like a chess move, then concluded, "Pete's right, you are pretty funny," he said and slapped me on the back.
"Y-Yeah, you know, I could use a whiskey," I said and wiped relief from my brow.
"You a comedian or somethin'?" he asked.
"No, just fearing for my life."
